Fire Bird
by Elfpen
Summary: A small village, a hunted survivor, a headstrong caregiver. Their quiet romance was only the beginning of a much larger destiny, but through the muddiness of life, destiny is often obscured by the stories that make it worthwhile. A story of Hunith, Balinor, and the Great Purge.


**A/N**: I know, I _know_, I haven't updated Recrudesce in… a _long_ time. I blame a multiplicity of factors. One, school. Blasted conspiracy, it is. The professors must have weekly communes plotting how to make my schedule a non-stop fast track to exhaustion. Two, fall rush. Why does everything seem to move more quickly in the end of the year? I swear October just started, and yet it's already November… and finally: BBC. Somehow, even as _Merlin_ series 5 is airing (which is LOVELY, by the way) I find myself less inspired for all my original fics because the show is just so entertaining. But I've gotten my outline for the rest of the story (only a handful more chapters left ) so hopefully that will move quickly once I finally find time to write.

But beside that. I decided to write this fiction a while ago… I actually have another, abridged version of this entire story in another format that I might write/publish later, because I love the idea, but I felt that before I wrote an abridged version, a full version was in order. So! Here you go: The story of Hunith, Balinor, and the Great Purge.

* * *

It was winter when they found him.

None of them were exactly sure what day it was. Although the village elder kept a calendar like the high-borns might own, no one had bothered to ask him what the name of that day was. There was no reason to know. All that mattered that day was the deep bite of winter on their small village. The cold winds and the smell of turning leaves had hunted them for months, and the harvest had given up every last seed of food it could muster. The animals had grown their thick winter coats, and the trees had finally given up the last of their autumn dresses to the wind. Before the rattle of leaves had been swept away completely, the snow came.

It was the first snow, and it was fierce. A bad omen to be sure, they all knew. It'd still been falling in windy gusts that day, as they bade their last goodbyes to the green and watched ice gather on the ground.

The snow was, in fact, the only reason he hadn't found his own way, and the only reason they'd found him.

They'd begun to herd their livestock into the houses when the storm clouds rolled in. But the goat pen had broken open, and so Rolaf and a few of the other men had set out into the dusk to find them. When they returned, they'd brought back all but one of the escaped goats with them, but no one had bothered to ask about the one that was still missing, because they'd also returned with an unconscious stranger slung between them.

He was bleeding and injured, anyone could see, and he must have been so for a few days at least. He was young, but had a light beard which they had to rid of snow. They brought him to the elder's house straightaway and put him close to the fire, where they dressed up his wounds and removed his snow-soaked clothes. Who was he? They asked each other. Why was he travelling through such weather? He bore the cloak and pack of a traveler, but they all knew there was nothing and nowhere to travel to nearby, naught but their small village. There was nothing for miles around save Ealdor. They all muttered their confusion as they situated him in a thick blanket by the flames. Eventually, Rolaf opened the man's pack, and it was then that they found their answer in the form of a letter. It was written in a neat script, but was useless to the illiterate villagers who found it, save for their elder.

"What does it say?" They asked as he took it.

"Does it say where he's from?"

"Who is it for?"

The elder heard and ignored their queries with a long-suffering frown. He unfolded the letter carefully and scanned it top to bottom. His eyes grew sad and he looked over at the stranger by the fire. He sighed and refolded the letter with a grim air. "Bring Hunith here, please."

In a village so small, it didn't take long. Bundled in a thick shawl to ward off the cold, a young woman arrived a few minutes later, ushered in by the men who had gone to fetch her. "Arabor?" She called, and the elder turned to her. "They said you sent for me." Her eyes flickered to the blanketed stranger by the fire, but she made no comment. Arabor nodded and dismissed the other men with a wave, leaving he and Hunith alone.

"They found him near the river crossing," He said, looking at the stranger. "Unconscious, bleeding, near frozen to death in the snow." Hunith's eyes had travelled over to the unconscious figure as Arabor spoke, and as she listened, her eyes grew soft with compassion and worry. Arabor retrieved the letter. "They found this in his pack," He told her. "It's for you."

Hunith's eyes darted over to Arabor, who was now extending the letter towards her. She took it and examined it. New white paper, bent and damp, with _Hunith_ curled neatly across the back. She turned it over and opened it quickly. As one of the few people in Ealdor who could read and write, Hunith made quick work of the message within.

_Hunith,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, although I can scarcely say the same for myself. I trust that rumors of Uther's new laws against magic have reached even Ealdor by now. I cannot describe the horrors that have come to Camelot in the past days, nor will I tell you how many souls I have seen perish at Uther's hand for their gifts. Of late, Uther has fixated his eyes on the dragonlords, and is doing all in his power to smite all memory of them from the earth. Even as I write this, I can hear him and his men struggle to herd them into the courtyard. I regret with all my heart that an aging man like me can do nothing to save them, or do any more than I have already done to stay Uther's hand. I fear he is beyond all reasoning. I have done what I can do, and it must be enough. It is why I am writing this letter to you now._

_The man who gives you this letter is, or will surely be by the time I finish writing, the last dragonlord left alive in the five kingdoms. He is a personal friend of mine, and before Uther let his pain turn him to hatred, the king trusted him as an advisor. I have no wish to burden you, Hunith, but I fear you are the only soul safely outside of Camelot that I can trust with this matter. All I ask is that you care for him; give him food, shelter, and work through the winter. Keep his identity a secret. Guard him from suspicion. I will do what I can to keep Uther from pursuing his trail, but his life, I must leave to you._

_It is no small favor I ask of you, I know, but he is a good man and friend. And now, he is the very last of his kind. The world should not have to lose any of those that Uther's fires have already claimed, but least of all him. His name is Balinor._

_May the gods protect your village and you both from whatever lies ahead, and bless you, my dear Hunith, for your kindness, a beacon of light in these dark times. _

_For your safety and mine, burn this letter after you read it._

_-Gaius_

Hunith didn't realize it, but she'd let her hand travel up to touch her breastbone in distress as she read, her face a deep mix of horror, fear, and utter pity. Arabor must have seen it, for after he was sure she had time to read it through at least twice, he asked,

"Are you alright, child?"

She didn't know how to answer. She looked at the letter, then at the man. _The very last of his kind_. Thinking about what he must be going through, about the things he must've seen… her gut ached deep in sympathy. Eventually, when she'd felt Arabor's eyes on her too long, she said, "It's from Gaius." She said, avoiding saying she was alright, because she wasn't. Arabor seemed to know.

"Will you grant his request?" He asked her. Her eyes shot up to him, steeled in defense.

"You would have me do otherwise?"

"Not at all, dear Hunith," He told her, drawing near to put a wizened hand on her arm, "but watching your face, for a moment I wondered if you would yourself." She shook her head, and looked back over at Balinor. Arabor watched with her.

"He'll need a place to stay," she said. Where she couldn't see, Arabor smiled. Magic, dragonlords, laws, execution, and Hunith could only see a head that needed a pillow. Ah, to know such a caregiver was a blessing.

"He'll stay here, until he can wake up and show me he's taken no lasting damage from the cold."

Hunith frowned over at him. "He can't stay here for long, Arabor," She told him, and they both knew it was true. Arabor's home was little more than a hut. Village elder or not, they all lived with basic comforts. Arabor's one room home would hardly suit two grown men for an entire winter.

"We will figure something out. But leave those worries for the morrow. Gaius taught you some of his healing arts last you saw of him, did he not?" He had, so Hunith wordlessly went over to the unconscious Balinor and saw to the injuries that the men had bound earlier in well-meant but sloppily done bandages. She'd never seen cuts like them, but something in Arabor's face gave her pause. She sent a question over at him with her eyes. He saw it and sighed.

"He had that on his belt," He said, pointing to a sword leaned up against a table, "I figure if he didn't know how to use it, the other man would have killed him." Hunith sucked in a gasp. She'd never seen sword injures with her own eyes. There were no proper warriors in Ealdor, and no swords. Clean, deep, and painful. She spread salve on his injures with care.

She'd noticed that Balinor's face had begun to twitch in his sleep as she fussed over the deeper of his injuries, and she worried he would wake, but thankfully, he remained asleep the whole time, right up until she was tying up a bandage on his wrist. She saw his hand clench, and looked up to see his eyes slitted open. She thought he might be trying to respond, to say something, move somehow, but he couldn't, so she folded his bandaged hand up into the blanket as gently as she could.

"It's alright, you're safe. No one here will harm you. Go to sleep, now." And as surprising or unsurprising it might have been, for she didn't know his character, he obeyed without the slightest inclination of resistance.

Eventually, she rose, and saw that Arabor was looking over the letter at his table. When he saw that she'd finished, he gave it to her.

"You saw his last instructions, child," he said, rising and heading toward his bed. "I'll look over him tonight. You and I both know Gaius' wishes – now do as he says and will figure out the rest tomorrow."

She nodded and glanced at the message once more before tossing it into the fire. She watched it until it was ashes, picked up her shawl, and left for her own home.


End file.
